


She's Not a Purebred

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Silver Fox Saturday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2691101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't lock a puppy in the evidence room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters and make no money from this writing. No disrespect is intended.

The puppy was young, barely old enough to be away from her mother according to Hopkins, whose parents had bred wolfhounds. “She’s at least part boxer.” The sergeant handed the shivering lump up from the recessed garage bay where a mechanic’s body was sprawled. Small, brindle, with an uneven black and white mask over her muzzle and eyes and white tips on her back paws. Greg tucked her into the front of his jacket and tied the belt tight to keep her from sliding out, while the forensics team got down to work. He’d have someone call the RSPCA in a minute, just as soon as he’d determined the perimeter of the scene and gotten the tapes set. When that was finished, Singh called him over to look at something he’d found in the back corner of the shop. And then, of course, a couple of reporters showed up and needed turning away with ‘diplomacy and tact’. He never quite understood why, but that job always seemed to fall to him. 

Twenty minutes later the dog began to wriggle, crying her unhappiness in a string of high pitched whimpers. Greg unzipped his jacket far enough that she could stick her head out, and continued directing the investigation. 

“She probably wants to go to the bathroom,” Hopkins reminded him with a nod toward the pup. Greg lifted her out of the warm cocoon and carried her to a patch of grass, well removed from the tape and flashing lights. Hopkins was right, and once she’d taken care of business she trundled back to Greg and sat looking soulfully up at him. Really, what else was he to do but scoop her back up and cuddle her against his chest? There she stayed until the pictures were taken, the evidence collected, the team dispatched. Midnight, and too late for a run to the animal shelter. Well, Mycroft wouldn’t mind too much. It was just for the one night. She could stay in the bathroom, no bother at all. 

***

“What in God’s name is in your coat?”

“Now, love, don’t get upset. We didn’t get done at the repair shop until after all the shelters were closed. I couldn’t very well just leave her. Look, she can sleep in the bathroom and tomorrow I’ll drop her off.” The puppy looked around at the tasteful furnishings and original works of art, and squeaked a bit. Greg had prudently allowed her to relieve herself before bringing her inside. Now he watched as his partner attempted to impose his authority over a puppy. He wasn’t sure who was more adorable; not a word anyone else tended to associate with Mycroft Holmes, and certainly one he never spoke aloud. 

“She’s not a purebred.” 

“Nope. Street dog, most likely. Might’ve belonged to the vic. Could’ve been a witness, but you can’t lock a dog up in evidence storage. Who knows what she might eat?” Greg spoke over his shoulder, turning down the hallway and opening the linen cupboard for an old blanket. 

“You do realize that same argument could be applied to our home?” Mycroft arched an eyebrow watching down his nose while Greg folded the blanket onto the floor and settled the puppy on it. Greg thought this was distinctly unfair; Mycroft knew he loved that look. It made him want to do things. Erase that smug, supercilious attitude, get back some of his own. The puppy curled into a ball on the blanket. Her eyes flicked to Mycroft, then dismissed him and turned to Greg with a pleading whine. God. Cheeky thing.

“Shelter. Tomorrow. First thing.” Greg wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Mycroft or warning the pup. It never occurred to him that he might be reminding, and warning, himself.


	2. We Can't Keep Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They can't keep her, for a lot of sensible reasons. A lot. Sensible. Can't keep her.

It was the whimpering that woke Mycroft, high pitched whines coming from the bathroom and heard even over Gregory’s snoring. He reached to shake his partner awake; Greg had brought the dog home, he could very well attend to its needs. Mycroft aborted his mission with a sigh upon seeing the dark circles and deep lines on Greg’s face. Instead of kicking him out of the bed, Mycroft turned off his own alarm and slipped out of the bedroom to address the needs of the ‘evidence’ currently kenneled down the hall.

She hadn’t soiled in the bathroom, he’d give her credit for that. And there was a certain clumsy charm in her trundling approach, in the little paws that batted at the hem of his pyjama pants. “You’re not a cat, you know.” He scooped her up, deftly keeping his fingers out of reach and tucking her against his chest. “Let’s take care of business, and then I suppose you’ll need to be fed. Even I won’t sent you away with an empty stomach.” A piece of whole-wheat toast would probably suffice while he looked up other options. 

~*~

“What’s she eating?” Greg stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the puppy work her way through the breakfast Mycroft had offered her. 

“Several websites suggested rice and boiled chicken, if puppy kibble wasn’t available. It’s not adequate as a long term diet, but it’s acceptable as a substitute.” 

“I see.” He rubbed the back of his neck and headed for the coffee maker. He’d already taken down a cup and tried to pour before realizing the coffee hadn’t yet been made. “Are we out of coffee?” That didn’t seem possible, but Mycroft not having followed his established routine was equally unprecedented. 

“I apologize. I was caught up in dealing with your ‘evidence’. If she’s finished eating, I’ll do the coffee while you take her outdoors.” Mycroft took the pot from Greg’s hand and nodded toward the pup. “You always brew it too strong, and I’ve done the honors once already. The gap under the gate is too small for her to crawl through, but do keep her away from the lilies. They’re toxic to dogs.” 

Well. This was an interesting development. And one Greg would encourage wholeheartedly. It would require a deft touch, but he was up for the challenge. 

~*~

“We can’t keep her,” was Mycroft’s greeting, along with a cup of coffee and half a grapefruit. 

“I know that.”

“We both work unpredictable schedules.”

“Yeah, we do. Dogs like routine.” The coffee was hot, not too strong, with the perfect amount of milk and sweetener. 

“I am often called out of the country at short notice.” Mycroft sipped from his own cup and didn’t meet Greg’s eyes.

“Mm-hm.” Weary from her excursion outdoors and comfortably full, the puppy settled under the table with her head on Mycroft’s slipper. 

“Dogs need regular walks. Training. Puppy classes for proper socialization, particularly when they are removed from their parents at such a young age.” 

“You’ve figured out her age?” Greg picked up the bowl of grapefruit, noted the generous drizzle of honey over the top.

“Do give me some credit, Gregory. I can tell the difference between a two- and a four- month old puppy. She’ll not have had her rabies shot, even assuming her former owner was responsible enough to seek veterinary care. She’ll need feeding at least three, preferably four, times a day. Regular trips outdoors to ensure she learns proper bathroom habits.” Mycroft was gaining steam, solidifying his position against what he actually seemed to want. Greg needed to knock him off balance. 

He nodded, caught Mycroft’s eyes, and scooped up a portion of fruit. Grinning wickedly, he brought the spoon slowly to his parted lips, curled his tongue around the cool metal, and lifted his chin while swallowing and pulling the spoon from his mouth with a wet slurp. Yeah, that did the trick. Mycroft unconsciously wet his own lips, his eyes never leaving Greg’s.

“And you can’t put a dog in day-care,” Greg pointed out. 

Mycroft blinked, shook his head slightly, then pulled his laptop over and clicked through several tabs. “Actually, there are a few such establishments nearby. Two of them would be convenient to our routes to and from work. Which is entirely beside the point, as we cannot keep her.” 

Time to back off just a bit, while simultaneously raising the stakes. “Molly -you know, Dr Hooper, over at the morgue?- She’s got a nephew staying with her. Taking a gap-year, then going to veterinary school. I bet he’d be able to find a good home. Mols might even keep her; she was fond of Rufus, even if things didn’t work out with Tom. She’s been talking about it.”

He didn’t miss the pinching of Mycroft’s eyes, the faint tightening of his lips when he said “Yes, of course, if Evi- the dog- were able to co-exist with Dr Hooper’s cat, that might be an ideal solution. Her schedule and lifestyle are far more stable than our own.”

“Right. I’ll give her a call. I’m off today, so I can run over to Molly’s if everyone is in agreement.” Which they wouldn’t be. Not if he played it right.


	3. It's Only Temporary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the record at the veterinarian's office says so, it must be true.

The kitchen was redolent of good food, the lights turned down, classical music drifted from the stereo set atop the workspace. “Nice wine? Check. Table for two, complete with linens? Check. Broiled salmon with lemon caper sauce?” Greg cracked open the oven and verified that the dish hadn’t vanished in the last five minutes. “Check.”

At his feet, the brindle puppy growled and shook a stuffed toy. 

“You were supposed to leave that in the basket until after Mycroft gets home.” Of course he knew his partner was going to see through his efforts. Only a fool tried to manipulate Mycroft Holmes. Manipulating everyone else though, that Greg could do. Play on perceptions to build up plausible deniability. Set it up so that everyone got what they wanted, without exposing vulnerability. Child’s play, really, even before he’d moved in with a master of the craft. 

The sound of footsteps in the hallway was Greg’s cue to don oven mitts and pull the baking dish from the oven. Mycroft came in with a smile, pausing to give Greg a soft kiss before asking, “What’s the occasion?” 

“Does there need to be an occasion? Maybe I just felt like cooking.” Just felt like cooking Mycroft’s favorite: plausible deniability, indeed. Greg drew out Mycroft’s chair, but his partner was staring at the space under the table.

“Gregory. Why is the dog still here? Did you perhaps lose your way between Miss Hooper’s flat and the animal shelter?” 

Sighing, Greg took his own seat and began serving the salmon. “Come on, sit down. I’ll explain.” He waited until Mycroft had draped his jacket over the back of the other chair, waited a bit longer while he sampled the flavorful dish and nodded his appreciation. Finally, after many significant looks and an arched ginger eyebrow, he began his tale. 

“You’re right, Molly didn’t want her. Said Toby’s enough. So I told her we’d just go to the shelter.”

“And I suppose she told you that it was a horror, full of inadequately cleaned cages, depressed animals, smelly and chronically understaffed.”

“No, actually, she was very enthusiastic about it. Kept going on, saying how amazing it was that she was able to get a cat who’d already had his surgery and shots, and knew what to do with the scratching posts.” 

“So Miss Hooper gave the shelter a glowing review and endorsed your plan to deliver the dog. Yet the evidence currently eviscerating a plush toy beneath the table tells me that you did not, in fact, deliver the dog.”

After taking away the remains of the toy and washing his hands, Greg took up the wine bottle and poured. “Yes, well. The thing is, you said how she’s too young to have had her shots yet. And I was thinking that, if people prefer to adopt pets that are all up to date, well, that’s not so hard to arrange. She’s probably even old enough to...um…you know...” Greg gestured vaguely toward his own abdomen. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, then widened in understanding. 

“Undergo surgical sterilization?” Mycroft sipped his wine, calm and superior, but there was a twinkle lurking behind his frowning eyes. “You routinely discuss atrocities, and you cannot talk about getting a dog spayed? Really, Greg. Your co-workers would think you’ve gone soft.” 

“Not so soft. She’s got an appointment tomorrow. They’ll do shots for sure, maybe surgery if the vet thinks she’s old enough.”

When Mycroft leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down his nose, Greg was momentarily afraid he’d miscalculated. “You found a veterinarian without consulting me?”

“I did, though. Well, roundaboutly. You showed me those doggy day-care places, remember? I called one of ‘em, asked who they recommended. Turns out, they’ve got an on-call vet right around the corner. She was taking new patients, so…” he shrugged. 

“What time is her appointment?”

“Nine O’clock.” 

“I will accompany you. One of us needs to be certain the record lists us as temporary caretakers. Once she recovers from her surgery, we’ll find her a permanent home.”

Mission accomplished; Greg manfully withheld his grin. “Of course. Anything you say, love.”


	4. Hard Day's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by real-life events. The puppy has her little operation.

In the end, Mycroft hadn’t been able to assist with the drop-off, and neither of them was free to handle the pick-up, so Mycroft dispatched a dog-experienced assistant. He gave the man a list of quickly googled after-care instructions: not moving the basket from the kitchen, allowing the pup to sleep with the blanket she’d had since the first night in their home, keeping the lights turned low and minimizing noise. 

It was nearly nine when he finally locked the front door behind him. He followed the sounds of soft jazz, navigating by memory through the dim hallway, and found Mr Pearson sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a pained expression. The pup was in the basket lying on her side, a soft cone shaped collar obscuring her face and a small bandage taped over her abdomen. She was a bit groggy, but not uncomfortable, which aligned with his expectations. His relief was quashed, however, when she tipped her head back and issued an infantile and high-pitched howl. 

“Good Lord. What was that?”

Pearson spoke quickly, defending himself and explaining the puppy’s behavior. “I’ve spoken to the vet, twice, and she’s had the pain medication they sent home. Not terribly hungry, though she did take some chicken, and she had a nice drink not half an hour ago. She’s been outdoors, too, I practically had to hold her up but she did the necessary. Vet says it happens like that, sometimes, the anesthesia makes them a bit funny. Instructions are to keep her calm, normal diet if she’ll take it. She can have more meds at midnight, and if she doesn’t settle by tomorrow morning you should call them back.” He offered Mycroft the sheaf of paperwork, pointing out the shot record, post-op care instructions, and phone numbers. The puppy howled again, breaking off into a couple of high pitched yips, and Pearson hastily grabbed up his coat. “If there’s nothing else, sir?” 

“No, no, it’s fine. How long did the vet say she’d be doing that?” Mycroft held back his wince as another wail scraped across his nerves. 

“He didn’t. Had a labrador once, older than your pup there, had the same reaction after some dental work. Kept it up all night. She’s younger though, I’m sure she’ll settle.” He hurried down the hall, and Mycroft hastened to make sure the door was locked behind him, rubbing a hand over his neck and wondering what time Greg would be home. 

Back in the kitchen, he put Pearson’s tea cup in the dishwasher and set about preparing one for himself. The puppy howled when he ran the sink, and again when the kettle hissed. He knelt by her basket while the tea steeped, running one hand soothingly over her back. She howled. Perhaps the cone, soft though it was, was pinching? Mycroft pulled the velcro fastenings as gently as he could, and slipped it off, massaging her neck and scratching lightly at her ears. She snuggled her head into his palm, and howled. 

“Are you cold?” He pulled a corner of her blanket free, tucking the claret fleece carefully around the pliant body. “There, now. You’re alright.” 

The puppy raised her head and licked at his fingers, then sank down and appeared to be falling asleep under his gentle strokes. When he stood to retrieve his tea, she squeaked a bit, and began snoring. Obviously, Pearson wasn’t as good at dogs as he’d suggested, if he hadn’t figured out she was cold. Mycroft congratulated himself, and fetched his briefcase. He’d just go over a couple of reports while he waited for Greg. No need to relocate to his office; the kitchen was cozy, there was a tea-kettle handy, and the dog seemed soothed by his presence. He was two pages into a transcript when a drawn-out wail made him jump and drop the papers. Really, it was just too much. A glance at his watch said she couldn’t have more medication for another hour and a half. She’d settled, though, when he was petting her. With a guilty look around the kitchen, he leaned over and scooped up his papers, then lifted the puppy and blanket into his lap. Sure enough, she fell into deeper sleep once his hand was resting on the curve of her back. 

“That’s it. No more howling, you daft thing. You’ll heal faster if you sleep.” The papers were easily managed with one hand, and she seemed to be soothed by his touch, so he continued bracing her on his thighs. 

 

Dawn wasn’t far off when Greg came into the kitchen. He ran a hand over his hair while he looked at his partner. “She’s going to grow, you know. Probably too big to be a lapdog.” 

“Hello, Gregory. I’d quite like a kiss before you chastise me about the dog.” Mycroft lifted his face, smiled as Greg’s dry lips met his own. 

“Right. That’s your kiss. The dog?” 

“She has had an unfortunate reaction to the anesthesia, and this seems to quiet her. She starts howling every time I put her back in the basket. It’s most disconcerting.” 

“Hmmm. Right enough, but I’ve been looking forward to sliding into bed beside you. Let’s try again?” He bent and scooped the puppy into his arms, then settled her into the basket. 

Both men held their breath. She shifted a bit, settling into a comfortable curl, gave an enormous yawn, and went back to sleep. Greg smiled, crooked a finger at Mycroft, and left the kitchen. “Come on, love. You can still get a couple hours.” He pretended not to hear Mycroft’s whisper.

“Good night, Evidence.”


End file.
